Dangerous Exes (Page 19)

“Say it with me,” she whispered in my right ear. “Vegetable. Just sound it out.”

I slammed the kale onto the counter and walked her backward toward the closed pantry door. “You may not want to go in there yet.”

“Oh?” I reached for the knob.

“Yeah.” Her cheeks paled a bit. “It’s just, it might shock your system too much and I think smaller doses is a better choice.”

“Can I get you in smaller doses?” I wasn’t past begging. Hands-and-knees begging. Then again, that brought way too many erotic visions to my head, especially with that cherry-red cock-sucking lipstick.

“Sorry, I don’t come in fun size.”

“Ah, so that’s why there is no fun.” I tried moving her away, but she was a strong, yoga-doing pain in my ass.

“Move.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I opened the door.

Nobody.

Nobody could have warned me.

Not even God.

It looked like an Asian grocery mart exploded inside my pantry—and not in a good, oh-look-Thai-food way.

In an I’m-going-to-be-eating-squid-and-eyeballs sort of way. With unmentionable canned items that didn’t look dead yet.

“Isla,” I barked. “You have two hours to get this shit out of here.”

“But honey.” She hugged me from behind, her breasts pressed against my back as her hands slid to my front. “Don’t you want to learn about my culture too? It’s important in a marriage to compromise. Besides, I know everything there is to know about you. Beer, hot dogs, extra cheese, cereal abuser . . . why not learn all about what makes me . . . special?”

“Too far.” I twisted away from her. “This is insanity! Who’s actually going to come into our pantry and look at the food?”

“Ah-hah!” She jutted her chin out. “And yet you mistreat cereal boxes!”

“It looks better!”

“So”—she crossed her arms—“my food looks better in here too.”

I gripped my hair and tugged. “You’re impossible!”

“I’m your soon-to-be wife.”

“Same damn thing!”

She just grinned.

And I hated how that grin made me want to return the favor, made me want to kiss it away, punish, please.

I gripped the countertop. “I need to get ready, are we still on for later today, our two hours?”

Her face fell like she was upset I wasn’t fighting with her. I knew it would be seconds before I kissed her if I stayed. I was torn between wanting to yell and wanting to strip her dress with my teeth and scrape them down her neck. “Wait, you’re just dropping it?”

“One of us”—I tilted her chin toward me—“knows exactly what it’s like to compromise, to give up everything for another person’s happiness and suffer for it—so sure, I’ll give in. I’m used to being the one giving in, except back then I was at least getting laid for it.” I smirked at her angry gaze. “So, I’ll tell you what, you can keep all of this shit in here, paint every wall in the fucking house, under one condition.”

“I show you my boobs?” she countered in a weak voice.

“Everything.” I leaned down until my lips almost brushed across her neck. “I want you to show me everything, and I want you to let me claim every single part of it . . .”

“Extortion.” She winked. “I won’t fall for it.”

“And yet, something tells me you will.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What? Why? Why would you say that?”

I just snickered and walked off.

“Jessie!” Her heels clicked after me. “Jessie, I don’t like that look.”

“What look?” I called over my shoulder before saying under my breath, “Damn, she looks good in red.”

Chapter Twenty

ISLA

“So.” Blaire eyed me wearily. “How was the first night with the man of your dreams?”

I slammed my hands down on the desk and sucked in a breath. “Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Abby spewed out her coffee.

Dirty little eavesdropper.

“Not for that reason,” I called over my shoulder with an eye roll. “Trust me, that would have been better than discovering what I did.”

Blaire leaned in, Abby put the call on hold, Penny wrapped her tail around my legs.

“So?” Blaire urged.

“The psychopath opens cereal from the bottom of the box.” I made a motion with my hands while Blaire frowned. “Exactly! It’s strange. That’s what sociopaths do!”

“What? You looked it up online?”

“It’s a hunch,” I grumbled. “Besides, who the hell cares!”

“Jessie, clearly.” Blaire grinned. “So did he say why?”

“It’s pleasing to the eye.” I almost growled. “It’s weird, okay? And he didn’t even think to get milk, so I poured three pathetic spurts of milk into my midnight snack and almost suffocated him in his sleep.”

“Completely logical reaction,” Abby said sarcastically.

That’s the thing, though. I was the rational one.

I was the one who calculated, thought things out.

Jessie just brought out the worst in me. The need to verbally spar and physically strangle him over an empty box of Fruity Pebbles.

I’d never felt so out of control, and the minute I thought I had the upper hand he’d get that flicker in his eyes and I’d feel off balance again.

“Can’t wait to see what happens tonight at the game.” Blaire rubbed her hands together while I nearly passed out across my desk. “Hey, at least try to look excited, you know how awesome it’s going to be watching the LA Rams from box seats?”

“So. Awesome.” My mouth felt like a desert as I chugged more coffee. “So awesome that we’re going to be in front of TV crews and thousands of fans, people who are waiting for Jessie to fail again, people prying into my life with the wrong assumptions.”

“All you guys need to worry about is looking like you’re in love.” Blaire said it like it was easily done, but most of the time Jessie and I looked ready to kiss only during or after a heated argument.

“Right.” I adjusted my blouse and reached for my black-rimmed reading glasses. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

The door buzzed.

I jerked my head up. “That’s our appointment with Danica.”

“Let’s do this.” Blaire handed me a fresh bottle of water as we made our way to the front of the office to meet our new client.

The minute she saw us, she started shaking and then averted her eyes like she wasn’t used to people noticing her. It was one of the first clues that something else was going on in the relationship, something bad, possible emotional or physical abuse. My heart sank.

I held out my hand. “I’m Isla, are you Danica? I know this is a very sensitive situation, but we need to get the facts, first from you, and then from our own research.”

“And”—she lifted a shaky hand to her face to wipe a tear—“he’ll never know?”

“Never,” Blaire piped up and handed her a tissue.

I hated these situations, ones where the woman is so terrified of the guy she married that she can’t even get help.